Olive had so many questions: Was it her fault—some deficiency in diet or some promiscuity in college that had led to this? How would she tell Peg? Would it happen fast, or would it be a slow decline? Would it hurt? Would she still be herself, at the end?

Harriet stepped back, still holding Olive’s hands. She gave them a final squeeze. “I need to go assist. You going to be all right?”

She left without hearing Olive’s response. But they both knew the answer, anyway.

—

WHEN WREN HAD STARTED high school, two months ago, she suffered the usual freshman pranks: being told there was a pool in the basement when there wasn’t, finding shaving cream in her locker, being squirted with water guns as she walked down the foreign language hallway. She learned pretty fast which routes through the school were safe and which ones weren’t. The place she hated the most, however, was the Pit, which was an outside corridor connecting two arms of the building, where the smokers hung out between classes. She’d run the gauntlet, knowing these kids smelled her fear and her na?veté, were making up their minds about her without knowing her at all.

That’s what it felt like now, walking past the line of protesters. Some of them smiled at her, even as they waved posters of bloody babies in her face. Some chanted Dr. Seuss: A person’s a person, no matter how small. “Can you come here for a sec?” one woman said, with the kind of apologetic smile you use when you are truly sorry about asking for help, because your car has broken down on the side of the road or your phone is dead and you need to call home or you are juggling too many groceries in your arms and wishing you’d been smart enough to take a basket. Instinct tugged her in that direction, because Wren had always been a good girl. The woman had red hair and funky purple glasses and looked incredibly familiar, but Wren couldn’t place her. Still, she didn’t want to run the risk that the woman might recognize her, too—what if she worked at the police department or something, and spilled this secret to her dad? So she ducked her head as the woman stuffed a little goodie bag in her hand, like the kind you got at a kid’s birthday party.

Just then her aunt was glued to her side. “You’re not going in there alone,” Bex said, and Wren wrapped her arms around her aunt’s neck and hugged her tight.

Wren knew it made her sound like a total bitch, but she didn’t really pine for her mom. Part of it was because her mother had left when Wren was little; part of it was because of her aunt, who filled in any empty spaces.

Aunt Bex had sewed her a colonial dress for the American Revolution unit they’d done in second grade. (Well, she’d hot-glued it—she wasn’t particularly good with a needle.) She had never missed a T-ball game and brought sweet tea for all the other parents. She even hung Wren’s lame watercolors on her wall; she, who was an artist and knew damn well they were terrible. It seemed to Wren that having a mother had a lot less to do with a few sweaty hours of labor and delivery and a lot more to do with whose face you always looked for in a crowd.

As if she needed any more proof, here was Bex beside her, even though Wren knew how much it cost her. She knew Aunt Bex had never had children and that fact maybe even had something to do with her aversion to the Center. But in a way, Wren was secretly glad Bex belonged only to her.

By the time they were buzzed inside, sweat had broken out between Wren’s shoulder blades. “You sit down,” Wren told her aunt. “I can check myself in.”

There were a few people in the waiting room, and a television was on, with the sound muted. At the reception desk sat a woman with the most stunning tower of braids Wren had ever seen—thick red and black snakes twined around each other. She wore a name tag that read VONITA, and she was on the telephone. She smiled at Wren and held up a finger, suggesting she’d only be another moment. “In the state of Mississippi it’s a two-day process. That’s right. So Thursday would be your counseling session, your lab work, and a sonogram. The next day, when you have your procedure, you’ll be here from an hour and a half to three hours. If you want to schedule an appointment I can help you with that now.” She paused, then picked up a pen. “Name? Age? Date of last period? Good contact phone number? So you’re scheduled for Thursday at nine A.M. Now, write down your appointment date and time because we can’t verify if you call back and ask when it is, for confidentiality reasons. You have to bring a hundred and fifty dollars and your photo ID. Cash or card. No large bags, no purses, no kids. All right then. You’re welcome.” She hung up the phone and smiled at Wren. “Sorry about that. How can I help you?”

“I’m here for an appointment,” Wren said, and then hastily, “But not … not like the kind you just scheduled. My name’s Wren McElroy.”

“Ren … Ren …” The woman scanned a list.

“With a W.”

“Ah. Here you are.” Vonita checked her in and handed her a clipboard. “Just fill out this form for me, and we’ll get you in as soon as possible.”

Wren sat across from the television. She scribbled down her information—the usual stuff—name, address, age, allergies.

Beside her, Aunt Bex was going through the little goodie bag Wren had been handed by the protester. Smarties. ChapStick. A pair of tiny blue knit booties. “Well, those are sweet,” Bex said.

She dug out hand sanitizer, breath mints, and two small soaps.

“Maybe they think we’re all dirty,” Wren said. She plucked the flyer from the little bag and began to read: Please don’t rush into this decision. Abortion is FOREVER.

If you are in an abortion center right now, you can just leave. You don’t have to tell anyone. If you’ve already paid, we can help you get your money back.

Wren opened the pamphlet. There were pictures of gummy, bright-eyed babies.

Before I formed you in the womb, I knew you.–God

“You think that’s a direct quote?” Bex asked, reading over her shoulder.

Wren stifled a laugh. “My history teacher would not accept that citation.”

On the back panel was a list of the alleged consequences of chemical and surgical abortion:

perforated uterus, chronic and acute infections, intense pain, excessive bleeding requiring transfusion, risk of future miscarriages, infertility, cancer, death.

Feelings of guilt, anger, helplessness. Mental breakdown. Depression, nightmares, and flashbacks. Inability to feel joy about life. Feeling of separation from God. Fear of not being forgiven. Alienation from family and friends. Loss of relationship with boyfriend or spouse. Promiscuity. Drug abuse. Suicide.

It reminded Wren of those ads on television for antidepressants. Yeah, we’ll stop those mood troughs, but you might wind up incontinent, with high blood pressure, with increased suicidal tendencies, or, hey, dead.

Wren looked at the bold type at the bottom. YOU ARE NOT ALONE. WE CARE ABOUT YOU!

Suddenly she remembered where she had seen that redheaded woman. She was the parent of a ninth grader, and she had raised holy hell over a unit in health class where they studied contraceptive options. The day Wren had to roll a condom onto a banana, the woman had barged into the room, spewing craziness about impressionable minds and God and the rhythm method. Wren had felt bad for her son, who was moved to the library during health from then on.

Wren shook her head, now that she realized that this woman who was anti-contraception was also anti-abortion. Wasn’t that counterintuitive? If you didn’t want abortions, shouldn’t you at least be throwing free condoms and birth control pills out to anyone who would take them? Shouldn’t that woman have been cheering for Wren to come to the Center and get the Pill, instead of berating her?

Wren looked down at the pamphlet again. WE CARE ABOUT YOU!

Or not.

She walked across the room and tossed it into the trash.

—

“DADDY,” BETH CRIED. “DADDY?”

Frustration foamed in her father’s wake, but he didn’t look back as he left. He nearly mowed down the nurse, hurrying to get away from her.

Away from what she had done.

Jayla peered at her. “You okay?” she asked gently.

Beth shook her head, unable to speak.

The nurse sat down on the edge of Beth’s bed. “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop,” she said, “but it’s pretty hard when the door’s wide open.” She hesitated. “This isn’t my usual floor, you know. I work on the ortho floor, but I’m covering for a colleague who needed a personal day. So I’m not sure what the protocol is here.”

Beth wiped her eyes. “What do you mean?”

“Well, in ortho, if I found out my patient is an intravenous drug user or has some other history she didn’t disclose to the doctors, I’d tell my supervisor. It could be a matter of life or death. What I’m trying to say is that you really do need to tell me the truth.” She looked at Beth. “So,” she said, “which is it?”

Beth blinked at her. She felt the walls pressing in.

“You told me you didn’t know you were pregnant. But I just heard you tell your father you went to an abortion clinic.”